The Door's On The Latch
by busybee6563
Summary: 3 years later and Sherlock returns to 221b Baker Street. He's working up the courage to go in when John comes home. He's extremely shocked to say the least. Spoilers for Reichenbach.


**A/N:** So I know there'll be millions and billions of these but I thought I'd try my hand at it. Influenced by some fanart I saw on tumblr. I shall link on my profile.

Ultimate creys for that episode.

I hope you enjoy.

**Edit**: I aim to write a few more of these from other people's point of view.

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><p>Sherlock stands there on the pavement. He simply stands and stares at the door. Outside of which were so many crimes to be solved. Inside of which was John and Mrs Hudson and everything he associated with <em>home<em>. He takes it all in again. It's stupid, really. It's just a fucking door. He knew everything about it the second he looked at it; the slightly worn doorknob, the clumsy splashes of paint on the metal figures, the slight scorch marks still left on the walls from the explosion all that time ago. Not so long after he'd moved in. Not so long after they'd first met.

So he stood there and lied to himself, pretending that he was re-remembering, reminiscing, trying to find things out of the ordinary, even, when he's really just trying to work up the courage to knock on the door or go inside and find them and refresh his memories of what it smells like in there and how Mrs Hudson's tea tastes and how John's looking now.

That is until he hears a sort of crumpled crash to his left and without even looking he knows someone slightly shorter than him has dropped a plastic shopping bag. He knows there's a box of six eggs, four of which are smashed and a small tub of butter and a loaf of pre-sliced bread and a box of 80 round teabags lying on the pavement. Normally, he wouldn't waste the energy caring about someone else's shopping, never mind giving them attention regarding it. But he hears a sharp intake of breath which tells him this isn't normal. Intrigued, he turns.

And he stands there on the pavement and he can't quite believe it.

He's so different yet the same. The same haircut, but with more grey streaked through it. The same dress sense but clearly laundered and ironed by someone else. The same eyes, but with dark rings underneath. And of course the tears falling from them quite silently. Sherlock had never seen John cry before.

But there he was. John Watson, just a few feet away from him crying because he wasn't dead. Sherlock watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest for a few seconds, unable to look into John's face until he spoke.

"Sherlock." It was barely audible. Just a whisper, the word tangling in his throat as if it hadn't been involved in his vocabulary for a while, coming out broken. And that was seemingly all Sherlock needed to unstick his feet from the ground and move forward. The movement was all John needed for him too to close the distance between them.

Before they knew it, they were level and without really thinking about it, Sherlock reached out his arms and pulled John in. After he'd done it, it registered. Sherlock Holmes never hugged anyone. The only person he allowed to hug him was his mother. At Christmas. Yet here he was, hugging John Watson out in the street. And John Watson was hugging him back. The moment he felt John's arms wrap around him after a moment of hesitation, warmth flooded him. He felt John's hands grasp at the fabric of his coat, almost too tight, but Sherlock only really concentrated on the feeling spreading through him. It was as if he had been completely lost for these past three years without really knowing, and only now had he found his way. It was as if he'd been thrown overboard and someone had tossed him a life ring.

That was until he feels John's arms loosen and a fist punch his chest. Twice. Three times. The blows keep coming as Sherlock, stunned tries to control the seemingly endless stream of hits accompanied by sounds that should have been words but couldn't quite be heard through the thickness that tears had brought to John's voice.

"John, John, stop" Sherlock carefully grasped the other man's wrists until he stopped struggling and just stared at Sherlock. His eyes scrutinised the other man's face, tears still slipping down his cheeks. It was only then that Sherlock realised he too was crying, the collar of his shirt wet against his chest.

Sherlock clears his throat and without looking away, speaks,

"So I see you worked out how to use those machines in the supermarket?" John looks completely confused for a moment, as if the man before him has actually gone mad rather than the only superficial insanity. But then realisation dawns and suddenly John's laughing. And Sherlock's laughing too. Real, proper laughter, loud and right from below his ribs. Neither of them had laughed like that for…well…three years.

When they've calmed down, John wipes a little too fiercely at his face.

"Fancy some tea?" He asks, bending down to pick up the abandoned shopping. Sherlock, for once in his life, helps.

"I'd love some." They smile at each other and John fishes his key out of his pocket.

The door is pushed open and with the smell, everything comes flooding back. It smelt much the same, his own scent the only thing absent in that respect. They made their way up the stairs to the flat they'd previously shared. His belongings were nowhere to be seen. The flat seemed so empty without it littered everywhere. The décor was much the same, though there was a new rug in front of the fire. The same wallpaper was hung on the walls, the same armchairs in the same place in the living room.

John stepped through to the kitchen and, while he busied himself making tea, Sherlock took it upon himself to look around the rest of the flat.

The first room he came to was John's. He thought about John's views on privacy for a minute before nudging open fully the already ajar door.

And what he saw there shocked him the most. The small desk was littered with papers and letters, clothes in a quite disorderly pile on the chair. And then there was John's bed. Unmade.

John had always made his bed. Every single day, even when Sherlock was positively vibrating with energy wanting to get to a crime scene, John would always take the time to set his bed sheets. Military standard.

Tears prickled at Sherlock's eyes and something turned horribly in his stomach.

"Sherlock? It's ready," John called from the kitchen. Sherlock hurriedly turned his back on the room and shut the door again.

When he got back into the living room, John had put both cups on the table and was easing himself into his old chair. He pointed to a mug.

"That one's yours." Of course it was his. It was in his old mug. One look told Sherlock it'd been sat at the back of the cupboard gathering dust since he left. He picked it up carefully and took a sip.

"It's good." He said, falling back into his chair. John smiled. He opened his mouth to say something, probably, Sherlock thought, demand what on earth had happened but they were disrupted by the door opening downstairs and the unmistakable footsteps of Mrs Hudson resounding throughout the flat.

"Mrs Hudson! I've got a surprise for you!" John shouts, and Sherlock readies himself to give them both a thorough explanation.


End file.
